Sniper
by dark-disciple
Summary: A lone sniper finds himself unable to kill, but he quickly has to learn as the war against the rebels takes a bad turn and the imperials are driven from the world. 5 Chap mini story rated T for violence. First story please review thx
1. Heart over Eye

I

The bulrushes that hid him swayed gently in the breeze as toads slumped about the tiny pond that lay on the cap of the hill. There was a small parting in the reeds where his rifle lay, the metal killing device pressing down the thin plants. Frequently jets would scream overhead, he kept his head down when this happened, unwilling for a single pilot with a lucky eye to ruin his vantage point. Below him, a small guerrilla camp stood silently, its occupants either away fighting the futile war or sleeping away the terrible, inevitable reality that was so often associated with rebellion. The feeling of battling against a strong tide, when you know that no man can fight the sea and that soon you will be drawn out to sea as so many others before have been. He didn't care; he was a soldier of the emperor.

The man tensed as he looked down at the cam, a single rebel stood outside, and lit up a cigarette. He took the tobacco away from his lips and blew out a thin stream of smoke. This could be the man he thought, slowly lifting the long barrelled rifle to his shoulder; he cocked his neck and leant his head on the stock. Closing one eye the image through his targeter blurred into focus. He saw the green canvas of he combat tents through the red tinted scope, he glanced outside the scope and located the soldier, and bringing the rifle up to his eye he had a closer look. The soldier had no helmet, and parts of his armour were removed. He didn't seem to have a weapon. He flicked a switch on the scope and the image was magnified. He could see him clearly, he hadn't spotted him. With a squeeze of his index finger he could end this man's life. He could close the shark's jaws right now.

He banished the thought; this man was not his target. Just as he thought this another man came out from the tent opposite, a las-rifle was hung at his waste. The man had very short black hair, and a lean face with a nose that seemed to slice his face in two. The sniper dropped his rifle and reached into his pocket for the compact data-slate he had been given, he looked at the head shots of his target, the hair, the eyes, that distinctive nose. It was him. Lifting the rifle up to his eye again he saw the face of the man he was going to kill. Sixteen hours of waiting in the same stinking spot in the bulrushes made him almost glad to find his target. He knew nothing about this man, just like a shark knows nothing of the person it drowns and devours. It was a blessing. A sniper's job is to kill in absolute cold-blood. Otherwise it sparks off doubt and doubt only leads to one thing. Failure. His blood had had sixteen hours to cool. He was ready.

The sniper slowed his breathing and focused his crosshair over his target. The two rebels were next to each other, chatting about something he cared little about. He touched the trigger and lightly wrapped his index finger around it, still taking care to keep the rifle steady. He looked at the man and for a second his mind wandered. Tendrils of denial crept into his mind. This man is only defending his home. Doubt, he thought. In a split second the cold blood rushed through him compelling him to take his life. It was enough. There was a slight sound, and a kick of the stock into his shoulder. By the time he could register what he had done, the man's crown had been burnt open with a flash of super heated light. The man's shoulders jerked and the remains of his head fell back, his fingers went limp and his legs lost balance. For a second it looked as if the target would stand forever but in mere milliseconds he was on the descent. His torso fell back and at the last second, his legs bent. Three seconds after the shot had fired, the man was on the floor. The sniper saw the rebel soldier next to the corpse yell something; he didn't need to hear it.

The sniper shuffled backwards and felt a vaguely familiar feeling, he remembered it from when he last killed. That time had been followed by an emotional battle with himself. It made him wonder what had made him accept the transfer to this blasted unit. He remembered the major saying to him

"It's not the eye that makes a sniper, but the heart"

It was true, a trooper has raw fear to compel him, but a sniper has only his faith in duty. That was until the hunted turned on the hunters.


	2. Desperation

II

He sat up next to the pond once he had cleared the crest of the hill. He placed his smoking weapon down next to the calm waters, the effect of his deed boiled in his stomach. He had killed. His mind flicked back to the moment when he had pulled the trigger, the head of his target being destroyed in a flash of light. He remembered that moment of shameful achievement; he remembered causing death in the name of the emperor two times before. He couldn't do this. The sniper pulled his knees up to his chest and sank his head into them. He wept for the terrible crime he had committed.

He was oblivious to the camp alarm ringing out over the hills of the doomed world.

Day turned to night in the sixty four hour day cycle, the man lay on a bed of grass. He stared straight ahead, he heard the sounds of las-fire in the distance. The conflicting thoughts in his mind tortured him, he imagined the emperor was here to spur him on. To tell him to kill these people who simply were defending their culture, even though in reality, he knew that the emperor cared little for him. He wouldn't care if he was to run, would he? He couldn't stand this, he was going insane. He pressed his head into the loamy soil, desperately wishing for enlightenment. When he knew it would not come he cried out in frustration. He sat up, dirt rolling down his combat jacket. He pulled out the large long range vox- transmitter. He extended the aerial, with little care for it's wellbeing, and pressed the set frequency no.1 rune. The sniper pulled it up to his cheek. All he could hear was a voice. An unseen being repeating in low gothic two terrifying sentences,

"Imperial custody lost. The emperor is with you"

He knew this could only mean one thing, he was alone.

He threw the transmitter into the pond. He stood on his shaking legs, taking in his surroundings as he did so. The scene was horrifying, explosions blossomed all across the hills, and imperial ships streaked out through the stratosphere, a feeling of utter abandonment exploded inside him. And for a few seconds all of his other emotions were eclipsed. The sound of the explosions echoed over the landscape, he saw in the distance a starship fall and hit the ground, folding up like a tin can. He stood horrified. Maybe it was the lack of food or maybe it was the magnitude of his peril but something inside him made his brain switch off. Only for a second but it was enough. His eyelids went loose and his mouth opened slightly, his consciousness escaped him and he slumped into a ragged pile on the floor. In his mind his brain began to work melding recent thoughts and subconscious memories into a dream, in his case, he saw flashes of the man he had killed. He pictured a wife embracing the man's body weeping over her husband. He saw the women later in the tent with an auto pistol in her mouth. He heard the bang. And saw the spray the blood onto the interior of the tent.

He regained his consciousness at the sound of the bang. He could hear the explosions in the back of his mind, they sounded echoed and distorted. In a moment of surreal brain flow he heard the whinny of a horse. No it couldn't be. As his mind began to accept images from his eyes his vision blurred into focus. A man stood above him, a rifle pointed down at his body. He shouted something, it seemed unlike his eyes, his ears weren't working at their full capacity as he could still only hear the echoes of his words, he wouldn't of understood them anyway. The man shouted again this time louder and more aggressively, shaking the rifle in his face. As his ears began to tune in he heard the horse again. The sniper wondered if it was a figment of his imagination. The man shouted and gestured for him to stand. He put his hand over his chest and rolled onto it, pushing himself off the floor, as he stood he felt his head pounding. The man shouted again, this time it dawned on the sniper that he wasn't speaking in gothic. He looked around, it seemed to be raining a dirty, thick precipitate that he could feel running down his fatigues. Something caught his eye, a brown stallion, standing magnificent in the thick rain, this was a warhorse. That explained the strange noises. From it's saddlebag hanging amongst bedrolls was a cluster of grenades and a pair of las-pistols. As the sniper looked on in awe the beast flung back it's head and cried to the sky. He remembered beasts like this from his homeworld, Deltoid Destriers roamed the fields of the agri-world in huge herds. He had never been this close to one since he was a child. The rebel seeing him look at the horse shouted to distract him. Suddenly he realised the situation he was in, the enemy was right in his face. It was his duty to remove this man. Before this thought had ended his hand was moving.

The man yelled as the sniper forced the barrel of the las-gun away with a strong grip, with his free hand he launched a punch into the startled rebel's face. The sniper's knuckles slammed into his nose with a crunch, he felt the bridge of the man's nose break under the force which was solidly verified by the man's scream, as this happened the las-gun went off, firing into the earth with the sniper's hand still round the barrel. He pulled his hand away quickly the heat boiling and blistering his palm. Acting quickly he kneed the rebel between the legs knocking him onto the ground. The soldier rolled about in pain cursing under his panting breath. The horse obviously caring little about its rider stood and whinnied once again. He looked at the wretch on the floor, squealing from the pain, he was a stark contrast to his horse who was an entirely different breed of creature. It commanded respect with its dominating presence. He knew nothing about the pair's history but he knew that the horse somehow was the master. The las-gun lay on the floor next to the man. The sniper saw the immobilised rebel reaching for his weapon, the standing man strode over, picking up the rifle on the muzzle end of it's maroon casing, swinging it high over his shoulder he clubbed the defenceless man across the face. A huge gash erupted on his temple, and the man's body went limp. He did not know why the burning feeling of anger could be felt whenever he looked at him. But this was his duty, he thought. That made it acceptable.


	3. A Moment's Respite

III

With the unconscious man behind him, the sniper set off for the most sensible direction, back to the camp. He had a gut feeling that when he got back there would be no one there. He had not seen an imperial in the flesh for over sixteen hours. He marched on his battered legs and tried to keep the searing pain on the palm of his hand off his mind. It was near impossible. When he had walked for just over the first hour he encountered the first imperial, he lay on the floor with a broken leg and a dozen bloody bullet wounds in his chest, his regiment helmet was one the floor next to him. The poor souls face was a mask of a miserable death, for a second he felt a feeling of bizarre recognition, but he knew it was his imagination. The hunger inside of him was replaced by a feeling of sadness, did this man know what his fate would be the day he signed up for the imperial guard. He guessed not. The sniper was determined to carve his own destiny. He had to move he thought, there was no time for sadness.

Later that cycle the exhausted man found himself on the brink of a crater, strewn around it were early two whole platoons of imperial guard. Debris still burnt and smoked in the gaping hole in the world's crust. Around burnt out wrecks of imperial tanks disgusting remains of human form were scattered in large clusters. The sight was horrifying. Earlier on the hill he had seen hundreds of explosions. Had each one caused this level of carnage? He so dearly hoped not. Trees around the crater had been uprooted and thrown around in flurries of wood and leaf, to witness such a scene would surely awaken many a general to the _real_ horror of war. Before he had vowed to make his own fate, he wondered how many of these soldiers had done the same, only to be met by an air strike on the march. His stomach churned. He could look no more, he traversed the crater quietly singing an old song his father had taught him. The sniper, walked away from the scene unwilling to see another dead imperial. His heart beating loudly and his head full of sadness he marched toward his goal. But the crater had shown him one thing, that his chances on this world were small.

The beaten sniper arrived at another terrifying sight. The camp he had arrived at a week ago was destroyed, bodies of imperials again were raggedly scattered about the destroyed camp. This time the sniper knew almost all the bodies. He saw two of his sergeants lying next to a twisted steel table, a soldier who had pushed him out of the mess queue lay inside a collapsed tent, blood streaked down his fatigues from a large piece of shrapnel embedded in his left shoulder. Everywhere death, blood, bodies. He had never seen this side of a combat before. The losing side. Depression took hold of his body, he had come to this place in search of respite and a way off this rock. But the emperor offered him a reward for enduring the terrible turn of events.

The sniper smelt something, barely conceivable over the smoke, the disgusting smell of seared flesh and the omnipresent stench of death. But never the less he could smell it. It was food. His stomach twisted in pain when he thought it, but he knew it was here. Hell, he would have eaten it if it had mixed with the excrement of every soldier in this camp. He saw it, a pot full of boiling stew, on a flickering fire. He rushed toward it, hunger running through his veins compelling him forward. He picked it up like the chalice of the Sanguinius. And brought his head to the rim of the scorching metal pot, he tipped it and the boiling stew poured into his throat. He felt instantly invigorated as the liquid travelled down his trachea, leaving a burning trail of scolded muscle tissue. The pain made him gag but he didn't care. Streaks of pale green broth streamed down between his cheeks and chin and onto his neck. The pot was nearly empty and he was far from full but the simple act of kindness by fate had quenched his hunger, for now. He set the pot down on the floor and sat back in the death stained dirt. He laughed in joy. He laughed in the face of all that had faced him so far. He laughed knowing that he had won, for now.

**There may be a short wait for 4 and 5 as they are currently in the making, but stay tuned if you want to know how it ends for the sniper**

**Dark-Disciple**


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